


a fierce kiss, possessive and faithful

by goodmorningbeloved



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: "Pretend Kissing", Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, [eyeroll], gratuitous kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9757463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorningbeloved/pseuds/goodmorningbeloved
Summary: “You’re not that great of a kisser, but it was passable for the situation.”“No, I mean, was it okay that I kissed you in the firs— Wait.” Sam sits up straighter, casting an incredulous look at Rafe. “Not that great of a— I’m sorry, what?Passable?”--Or: Sam and Rafe kiss. For practice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1) this is part of a larger [fake](https://jilldrawblog.tumblr.com/tagged/fake-dating-au) [dating](http://videogamesandbutts.tumblr.com/tagged/the-fake-dating-au) [au](http://ughrafe.tumblr.com/tagged/fake%20dating%20au) that has grown its own figurative head.......and torso and arms and legs and is running around on its own tbh, so here's my take on samrafe being idiots & practice kissing  
> 2) title is derived from carol ann duffy's poem "valentine" which is more relevant when applied to this au as a whole tbh  
> 3) this was supposed to be posted before vday officially ended, but i was having issues so now it's technically a day late. boooo

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,  
possessive and faithful  
as we are,  
for as long as we are.

Take it.

- _Valentine_ , by Carol Ann Duffy

* * *

Kissing wasn’t part of the original arrangement, see. Sam’s supposed to let Rafe hold his hand or place it, supportive, over the small of Rafe’s back, and he’s supposed to smile, look upon Rafe with affection, and occasionally regale the other partygoers with the story of how they met. Then Sam gets to go home from this second banquet and collect the other half of his payment, and Rafe gets to sleep easier knowing that he’s staved off his parents’ expectations for another month or so.

But the fact that this is a  _second_ banquet also wasn't part of the original arrangement. "My parents insisted you have to attend again, especially after your...proper introductions," Rafe had said, and he had proceeded to offer a slightly higher amount of money, and since Sam assumed he had braved through the  _worst_ of this arrangement when he was threatened three times in a night, he had ended up agreeing to a second appearance.  _A_ last _appearance_.

The kissing, though—it's different. It isn't anything they have explicitly discussed, much less anything Sam thought he would have to  _do_ , but, well. 

It's not his fault he gets a little too carried away talking with one of the many assholes that Rafe has to deal with on a regular basis—some pretentious-looking woman who initially approached them with her equally pretentious-looking date and proceeded to needle for details on their  _salacious relationship_. “Will we be seeing you at more events, Mr. Drake?” she says. Even her voice sounds rich; it's a little ridiculous. It might also be a convincing display if Sam doesn't already know too well what condescension looks like in other people’s eyes. “I don’t mean this as an insult, but you look rather out of your element here.”

He hasn't spent as much time around the elite as Rafe has, but he has ears. He feels Rafe’s fingers tighten around his, borderline _painfully_ , and Sam might be more touched by the severe reaction if he isn’t busy feeling pissed off himself.

“I do feel a little weird, honestly,” he says before Rafe says something he might regret later. He keeps his tone light, his smile amiable, and his hand equally tight around Rafe’s. _Don’t worry, I’ve got us,_ this gesture says. “But it’s part of his world,” he bumps his shoulder lightly against Rafe’s, “so it only feels fair that I make an effort to 'immerse' myself, y'know? So yes, you can count on me showing up more often." He lets his accent slip a little more heavily—he and Rafe agreed it would grate on people's nerves more, and Sam lives for that kind of spite.

The lady makes an emphatic noise. “That’s a positively delightful attitude to have. I know firsthand how difficult, ah, _socioeconomic_ barriers can be to budding relationships, so I wish you all the luck. I know I'm lucky that I overcame them with Sebastian here.” She turns to her date, who turns too and leans down and nuzzles their noses together in a blatant show of affection.

Sam’s fingers are beginning to go numb.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” he says when they’re finished, “but I don’t think we need any luck at all. Rafe knows I’m committed to him, he knows the same about me, and I really think that will be enough to get us through.”

He thinks his mother might have been proud of the sincerity in his voice. With that thought, he tugs Rafe close, leans down, and kisses him.

_Fuck you,_ this gesture says—to the woman, of course. To Rafe, Sam thinks, _Please don’t deck me in the face._

Rafe doesn’t deck him in the face.

“How sweet,” says the woman when they part, her sugary tone faltering. “To young love, hm?” She raises her glass of wine towards them, and Sam watches Rafe’s face carefully—how his cheeks are a faint shade of pink, how his lips manage to form a civil smile as he raises his own glass in toast.

The comment might be another jab at his age, but Sam is, frankly, getting tired of analyzing each sentence someone directs at him. (He doesn’t know how Rafe puts up with this for hours, and Sam's honestly beginning to respect him for it.) “Didn’t you say there was a dish I absolutely have to try, darling?” he asks Rafe, who has finally loosened his grip enough for Sam to free his hand and place it around his waist instead.

“Yes, there is. I’m glad you remembered.” Rafe surprises him by sounding unfazed. He hooks his arm around Sam’s and leans into his side, and Sam naturally angles himself to accommodate Rafe’s presence. “It was nice catching up with you two, but I hope you don’t mind if Sam and I excuse ourselves now.” 

“Not at all.”

It’s only when they’re back at their table that he asks Rafe, taking care not to be overheard, “Hey. I’m sorry, was that too far?”

He can’t read Rafe’s expression, but there seems to be no murderous intent there, so that’s a good sign, right? “I don’t remember agreeing to letting you call me darling.” Rafe frowns as he digs his fork into a slice of _brazo de mercedes_. “But you handled that conversation pretty well, so I’ll let it slide this time.”

Sam blinks. Rafe looks utterly serious. “Er— I guess that too, but I was talking about the—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish, because yet even more guests suddenly flank Rafe, half of them smiling fake smiles and the other half openly eyeing Sam and turning up their noses imperiously. In an instant, Rafe’s expression unfurls into something that Sam has dubbed his _social mask,_ where his brow relaxes and the corners of his mouth lift up slightly in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, creating the perfect picture of polite vacancy.

“So,” says a man who takes the seat next to Rafe and moves in a little too close, “I hear Rafe Adler has finally found someone.”

“It seems like word of my love life travels fast,” Rafe comments without sparing the man a glance. 

“Only because no one’s been expecting it to happen.” The man laughs, boisterous and performative in a way that makes Sam want to smash his head against concrete, but there’s work to be done. He doesn't want to disappoint Rafe when Rafe is paying him a nice sum for this arrangement.

“Ah, don’t tell me you haven’t told anyone about how we met, darling.” Sam slips on a fond smile, reaching for Rafe’s hand across the table.

“Only because we both know you’re the better storyteller, sweetheart,” Rafe says with a smile of his own, and Sam is struck by how good of an actor Rafe is because that smile actually looks _genuine_ , and if Rafe is close to making an attempt on his life, Sam is none the wiser. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

“Well, if you insist.” Sam chuckles, turning to the other guests. “All right, so think of those movies that make up a little shop that's obscure yet charming enough to attract business. Now, imagine a place like that, except it's just _obscure_ —that’s like the coffeeshop where Rafe and I met. It was this ancient-looking building at the end of an old district, and he stuck out like a sore thumb...”

 

 

 

“How do you put up with that once a week?” Sam groans later in the hotel room. He collapses into the loveseat, hoping that the weird weight in the back of his head isn't the sign of an incoming headache.

“At least _twice_ a week,” Rafe corrects him from the bathroom. “And it takes an immense amount of self control and alcohol, thanks for asking.”

“Do you mean alcohol as in regular alcohol, or also an immense amount of alcohol?”

“Seeing as you just sentenced yourself to more appearances with me,” Rafe says pointedly, appearing in the doorway sans suit jacket, “I may have to _start_ taking an immense amount.”

_Right_ , Sam did do that—he groans, letting his head fall against the back of the sofa as he remembers what he said to the woman, wishing there was a way to retroactively put his foot in his mouth. The insult from Rafe doesn’t even register. “I wasn’t thinking,” he says by way of apologizing. “She was just— pissin’ me off, you know?”

“Believe me, I know.”

“And I wanted to wipe that smug look off her face—”

“I know.”

“Which is why I—” He stops, pauses.

Rafe, who is unbuttoning his dress shirt calmly, raises an eyebrow.

“ _That’s_ what I meant earlier,” Sam elaborates, realizing he never got an answer, “when I asked if it was okay. Was it okay? Me kissing you?”

“You’re not that great of a kisser, but it was passable for the situation.”

“No, I mean, was it okay that I kissed you in the firs— Wait.” Sam sits up straighter, casting an incredulous look at Rafe. “ _Not that great of a_ — I’m sorry, what? _Passable_?”

Rafe hums, apparently stuck on a particularly challenging button and oblivious to the blow he’s just dealt to Sam’s ego. “That’s exactly what I said. You know I’m not one to sugarcoat, Samuel.”

"Are you serious?"

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about—”

“Wow, okay, I’m sorry it was so unbearable—”

“Now you’re just being dramatic. I didn’t say unbearable, I said _passable_.”

“I think both are equally as bad here, Rafe!” he exclaims.

“Mm, no, I think they’re very different words. Sam, it's almost like you _want_  me to tell you that you’re the worst kisser I’ve ever had?”

“Well, am I?”

“No. You were just nothing spectacular, either.”

Rafe disappears into the bathroom, leaving Sam speechless on the sofa. Sam would like to say that he is an adult perfectly capable of accepting other people’s opinions…but in reality, he’s standing up to go after Rafe and change his mind because Rafe’s opinion is _wrong_.

“Let me do it again,” he says without thinking. He blames it on the number of glasses of wine he drank at the party. Yes. Completely. "I mean, if I'm going to be showing up at more of your parties now, we'll eventually have to kiss again, won't we? So we might as well practice."

It sounds like an absolutely flimsy excuse for him to try to polish his ego, but Rafe is looking back at him through the bathroom mirror with a genuinely contemplative expression. His hands hover by the edges of his shirt; Sam sees that he’s finally got the last of his buttons undone, and now that crisp white dress shirt is hanging loosely over his frame, and Sam is really trying not to stare at the swath of newly-exposed skin even though he won't deny that Rafe is attractive.

Rafe tilts his head and smirks like he knows exactly what Sam is doing—and maybe because it's the reaction he was looking for. _Little shit_ , Sam thinks.

“We can practice more after you’ve gone at least twenty-four hours without smoking,” says Rafe. “I’m going to take a shower now. Do you mind?” He waves a hand towards the door, but instead Sam catches it and uses it to tug him around.

“Hello,” Rafe says when he ends up a little too close than Sam expected, but there’s a spark of a competition in his eye and Sam doesn’t intend to be the first to back down.

“Was it the smoking?” he tries.

“Mostly. A bit of the technique, too.”  Rafe’s grinning slyly. He smells faintly of wine, which is maybe why he hasn’t moved away either—or, more likely, he’s just as competitive.

“The _technique_ ,” Sam echoes, slowly.

“Mhm.”

“I don't see why we shouldn't just practice some more right now."

And despite what Rafe said before, Sam catches him actually tilting his chin up like a challenge - or maybe an _offering_ - so Sam takes him by the open collar of that dress shirt, tugs him in, and kisses him again. This time he does so with _intent_ , and it helps that Rafe is receptive this time, mouth is surprisingly soft and pliable beneath his.

This kiss lasts longer; Sam notes smugly that it’s Rafe who breaks away for air first, his breath fanning warmly over Sam’s face.

“Try again,” he demands without missing a beat.

_Brat._ Sam kisses him harder for it, unrepentant when he finds Rafe kissing with the same lack of apology. This time he slips tongue and tastes wine and something sweet on Rafe, probably from dessert, and Rafe feels all too willing to let him in. Before Sam can further explore _that_ , though, Rafe ends the kiss again, hands gone tight where they grip Sam's shoulders.

This close, Sam can see how his pupils have dilated— _He has hazel eyes_ , he thinks, filing this particular detail away for reference.  _I didn’t know that._

Those are the same eyes that pointedly glance down to Sam’s mouth, then back up again. Sam patiently waits for his admission of defeat.

Rafe says, “If you can’t even convince _me_ , how the hell are we going to convince everyone else?”

Sam personally doesn't classify himself as outlandishly competitive, but something about Rafe takes that part of him and amplifies it, makes him want to bring Rafe down a level and simultaneously _prove_ himself to him. Sam's not sure why he feels the latter—he thinks some part of him will always be trying to prove himself to Rafe whether he likes it or not. Maybe now  he’s just playing right into Rafe’s hands, but the opposite would be to walk away and Sam has no intention of doing that when it's starting to feel like he's winning.

“Might wanna watch what you say,” he warns, sliding a hand under Rafe’s loose shirt and placing it on the skin of his waist. The contact is warm.

“Or what?” Rafe, never one to be outdone, tangles his fingers into Sam’s hair and _tugs_ , and Sam growls and surges forward to capture his mouth again. He crowds Rafe against the sink, leaning in until Rafe is forced to bend back slightly under his imposing height, smirking when Rafe has to hold onto him tighter for balance. He slips a knee between Rafe’s legs because he _can_ and prides himself on the low groan he elicits from Rafe, and this— this isn’t _exactly_ how he imagined things playing out, but he's not complaining. It has benefits too, doesn’t it? It’s _practice._

Then Rafe is bringing up a hand between them, planting it solidly on Sam's chest, and pushing Sam away. “All right,” he says mildly, sounding for all the world like he _isn’t_ flushed red and breathing a little too hard with an erection straining against his pants. (Not that Sam's doing any better.) “That’s enough for now.”

“Why?” Against his better judgment, Sam does not quit while he’s ahead. “Can’t keep up?”

“No, it’s just starting to feel like I’m making out with an ashtray,” Rafe says, dismissive, “and now I really want that shower.”

With that, he slips out of Sam’s hold, and Sam’s too stunned by the sudden shift to stop him. His gaze unwittingly follows Rafe, who simply turns his back to Sam and begins shrugging out of his shirt entirely, and Sam sees the flushed skin of his waist where he had probably held on a little too tightly, _should I apologize for that—_

Rafe glances back. “Don’t you have a bank account to check?”

_ —Nah. _

Sam makes a sound caught somewhere between a disbelieving scoff and chuckle. He can’t bring himself to feel irritated because it’s been a while since anyone’s successfully gotten under his skin in such a short period of time. What Rafe has accomplished is a _feat_.

“I’ll let you know if anything’s wrong,” Sam says then, smoothing his hair away from his face in a useless effort to fix it. He glimpses himself in the mirror as he turns to leave, a sight that confirms what he suspected: He looks just as disheveled as Rafe.

“You do that,” Rafe allows as he works on his belt.

Resisting the urge to help him out with that, Sam sees himself out of the bathroom—only to pause when he hears Rafe call after him.

“What,” he says.

“That last one,” Rafe says. Sam’s fully outside so he can’t see his face anymore, but it’s interesting to try and imagine what expression Rafe might be wearing at the moment. “That was an improvement.”

“Well, thank you,” Sam says to the door now separating them. “If that’s how you want me to kiss you in public, though, we’ll always have to make sure there’s a bathroom sink nearby." He pauses, thinking. "Or, personally, I’m partial to desks.”

“Maybe we’ll save the kissing for special cases,” comes Rafe’s reply.

Sam shakes his head, effectively amused.

“Like whenever we’re in front of my parents,” Rafe adds just before Sam hears him turn on the shower.

“It would be my pleasure,” he calls, hoping that Rafe hears him through the spray—and since he thinks he hears a laugh from the other side of the wall, Rafe likely does.


End file.
